


Kalopsia

by QuickLikeLight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Oral Sex, Other: See Story Notes, Season/Series 03, Word Games, manual sex, vocabulary porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:10:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1577957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickLikeLight/pseuds/QuickLikeLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock helps John improve his vocabulary, remixed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kalopsia

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Batrachomyomachy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1546634) by [QuickLikeLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickLikeLight/pseuds/QuickLikeLight). 



> This work is a derivative of Batrachomyomachy, a story written from John's POV in an established relationship. Much of Kalopsia is extremely similar, only written from Sherlock's point of view. The ending, however, is completely different. I don't want to give it away, so I will put appropriate trigger warnings in the end notes which you can view if you deem that necessary, though no Archive warnings apply. This is not a sequel, but a sort of remix. I hope you'll enjoy it.
> 
> Many thanks to [missoj](http://missoj.tumblr.com) for the beta job on this here work.

“Honestly, John, I’m not sure how you maintain any readership at all. Your phrasing is stilted, you omit all the interesting case details, and your vocabulary is absolutely juvenile.” Sherlock lazed fretfully on the sofa, dressing gown twisted around his hips and shoulders. John scowled in Sherlock’s direction from his comfortable chair, but the detective hardly noticed.

“You yelled ‘laterz’ at your brother in Buckingham Fucking Palace, Sherlock. I’m not sure you’re quite in the position to be critiquing anyone else’s vocabulary.”

“Of course I am in the position, John,” Sherlock flung himself up to sitting with very little grace. “Your infernal blog is about _me_. It damages my reputation if people believe you to be completely unintelligent!” He huffed, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. His skin felt tight, itchy, like it was stretched too thin. He wondered absently when he’d last eaten.

John ignored the obvious taunt and went for the crux of the issue instead. “Bored, are we?” He was getting so much better at that, and it made something warm and heavy settle in Sherlock’s gut.

“Incredibly,” Sherlock choked out, dolefully. “That doesn’t make your vocabulary less abhorrent, though.” John moved quickly and easily into his space, crowding him back against the sofa and climbing into his lap. He straddled Sherlock’s thighs easily, pinning Sherlock’s arms with his knees. Sherlock’s eyes widened as John leaned in to whisper against his skin.

“Would you like to play a game, Sherlock?” John’s breath was hot and wet against the sensitive shell of Sherlock’s ear. The abrupt inhale Sherlock took did nothing to camouflage the intense want crashing over him. He knew John could see it, a physical sensation, as Sherlock’s brain switched gears from “ _push-fight-win_ ” to “ _kiss-fuck-own_.” Knew he’d want to see it, want to watch his presence affect Sherlock in that way. _Good. Let him see._ “Because I would very much like to end this asinine sulk of yours.”

“Well, I do have a tendency toward batrachomyomachy.” Sherlock schooled his features into a sharp smile, challenging and aggressive.

John hesitated for a moment, eyes narrowing as he attempted to parse the meaning from context. Sherlock pulled his hands out from under John’s knees and rested them easily on his chest instead, rubbing his thumbs over the pockets of John’s button down. John shivered under his touch, and a strange expression crossed his face, something between intense desire and deep memory…

“Well, that was a tough one to begin with,” Sherlock said brightly, shaking John out of his lusty reverie. He put on a wide, fake smile. “Let’s start with something simpler, shall we?” Sherlock’s hands slid to the placket of John’s shirt, slowly unbuttoning it. “You’ve never been particularly perspicacious, but I’m sure you’ll catch on soon.” His eyes flashed with a challenge as he paused, one button halfway through its hole. For a long beat they sat there, a moment stretching out between them like warm breath in cold air.  
“You want me to guess,” John cottoned on, brow furrowed. “You want to give me a bloody vocabulary test instead of having sex. This is-”

“Positive reinforcement, John. Not instead of. In addition to.” Sherlock’s shark smile was out in full force as he held the button just where it was, caught both in and out of its place.  “Your word is ‘perspicacious,’ as in, ‘John takes ages to catch on to simple mental exercises because he is not very perspicacious.’”

“Just how brilliant do you think it is to be telling your lover he isn’t very smart?” John rolled his hips against Sherlock’s, sending shockwaves of pleasure over his skin, through his groin. Sherlock’s jaw dropped and a hushed, breathy noise escaped him without his notice. He hurriedly pushed the button through followed by a second, a third, a fourth, all the way down the placket.

“Technically-” Sherlock physically gathered himself, drawing up straight between John’s arms, “- ‘discerning,’ but given the situation, I’ll give you a pass.”

“Ta for that.” John rolled his eyes. “What’s my next word, then?” John squirmed in Sherlock’s lap. The worn pajama pants did little to cover the straining of his cock, but it didn’t matter. He wanted John to feel it. John bent close to kiss and suck at his neck and Sherlock groaned in spite of himself, letting his head flop to the side to give John room to drive him insane. He floundered in his own head for a moment, overwhelmed by the intensity of John’s mouth against his skin, trying to pull even one marginally difficult word from his mind palace.

“Your accismus is incredibly transparent, John,” Sherlock forced out, attempting desperately to control himself. “You obviously want to play as much as I do.”

“Ah,” John hummed as he rocked back and forth, clothed erection dragging over Sherlock’s own. The stiff denim was rough and harsh through the thin protection of his pajama bottoms. “Transparent means see-through. That one was easy.” He winked, saucily confident. Sherlock glared.

“Obviously your word is accismus, John,” he snapped, hands fisted in the lapels of John’s shirt. John grinned, the expression lighting up his whole face in a way that made Sherlock’s stomach fill with nervous energy - _butterflies, strange metaphor but so fitting, fragile wings in a roiling expanse_ \-  and pressed a kiss, just a small one, to the side of his mouth.

“Accismus, then. Don’t suppose it means ‘must kiss,’ eh?” Sherlock shot John a sardonic look, and John laughed, rubbing one hand fondly against Sherlock’s cheek. “Ah… well, if it’s transparent that I want to play and accismus means… what, the opposite of that? Then, what… reluctance?” John screwed up his face thoughtfully. “Fake reluctance?”

“A feigned lack of interest, yes.” Unable to help himself, Sherlock pushed forward, capturing John’s body with arms about his shoulders. The kiss was perfect, warm and wet and familiar in a way Sherlock never knew he’d find. Sherlock hummed against John’s mouth, a small, happy sound, and pushed the button down off his shoulders, revealing the sharp jut of his collarbones under his thin vest. The vest came off next, coming up over John’s head easily as Sherlock lowered his mouth to the join of John’s neck and shoulder. He sucked, hard, and John rolled his hips down against Sherlock’s, the press and weight of him perfect against Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock groaned against his neck, the soft taste of sweat and scent of aftershave filling his senses.

“Fuck, Sherlock, yeah, feels so good,” John panted, rubbing his erection against the tented front of Sherlock’s thin pajamas. He moaned loudly, and the sound sent shocks of arousal over Sherlock’s skin.

“Gradgrind,” Sherlock said against the skin of John’s neck. The skin muffled it beyond recognition, but Sherlock didn’t care, he just wanted more of this sweet taste, warmth and intimacy and vulnerability right here over John’s pulse. John giggled and pulled away, muscles rippling as he moved, and Sherlock chased him with his mouth. John’s fingers wound carefully into Sherlock’s curls and as he eased back.

“Was that a word or are you going non-verbal?”

“Gradgrind,” Sherlock repeated, lifting his hips to roll up against John’s. He caught John’s eye and held his stare, drinking in the sight of that face covered with fondness and want and gratuitous affection. “As in, Greg Lestrade likely thinks I am a gradgrind, but I am no machine for John Watson.”

“Well, unless you mean a fucking machine, and then-”

A surge of lust ran through Sherlock, pushing him forward into John’s mouth. For a moment it was simply a struggle of teeth and tongues, but then John bit down on his bottom lip and sucked, hard, and for at least four seconds Sherlock had no thoughts at all.  

“Give me the definition, John,” he rasped against John’s mouth, and then pushed him back. John looked delectable: rosy under his tan, hungry-eyed and possessive. Sherlock’s face heated. His lips pursed as John trailed his fingers over them, down his neck, to the collar of his worn grey t-shirt.

“Gradgrind. It’s a noun. And apparently it means something like machine, which you are patently not,” John’s voice was quiet and confident as he tugged Sherlock’s shirt off. Sherlock acquiesced, but collected himself enough to raise an eloquent eyebrow at John’s lack of an answer. “Someone… someone not like you,” John ran his mouth down Sherlock’s neck, bent to lick the skin over his breastbone. Everywhere his tongue touched, Sherlock felt his skin pebble in response. “Someone who isn’t warm, like you. Someone who isn’t responsive like you. Someone who doesn’t make me crazy like you do.” John’s mouth was on his nipple, his tongue dancing lightly over the skin in the best, worst way. His head spun, falling back on the sofa in his moment of disoriented bliss.

“Fine, ah, yes… someone who is only interested in cold, hard fact.” Sherlock shot John an embarrassed smile. “So, yes, not me. Not really.”

John scooted backward in his lap, bending down to suck at the skin over his ribs, and fell abruptly to the floor. The sound was shocking in the quiet flat: the smack of his arse on the hardwood, the gust of breath leaving him on impact, the little whine that escaped just before the giggles. John’s face turned bright red and a sharp ache ran through Sherlock’s chest. He whimpered, biting his bottom lip to keep the sound from spilling out. Even now, in their comfortable togetherness, it would make John uncomfortable to know the depth of Sherlock’s regard. He shook his head, trying to keep the blatant display of love off of his face.

“Well, it’s unfortunate that you aren’t more steatopygic, John. Could have saved yourself some bruises.” He tried to force out a laugh, but it came out mangled and uneasy.

“Ah… graceful?” John didn’t seem to notice. He pushed himself up off the floor with a grunt and dusted off his arse. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist, pulling him in and digging careful fingers into the abused flesh.

“Put very simply… fat-bottomed,” Sherlock grinned, pressing a kiss just to the left of John’s navel. John’s skin was soft and smooth here with a thin layer of plush flesh covering his abdomen, tempting Sherlock to bite and pull and suck. Sherlock popped open the button at John’s waist and pulled the zip down, fingers fumbling in haste. He let them hover, flitting carefully over John’s waist in manic brushes. The brief touches sent electricity up his fingertips, and John pushed himself more firmly into Sherlock’s hands, filling them in the best way. “I am fortunate, though, that you are rather callipygian.” With great care, Sherlock slid John’s jeans and pants down over his hips, down his thighs. He held them there at John’s knees, and smiled up into his face, holding his eyes. He longed to reach out, to touch John’s erection, to bury his face in John’s skin, but he resisted. _Must play the game. Must keep it safe._

“Is that… is that my word, then? Callipygian?” John looked unsteady on his feet, and Sherlock couldn’t help himself as the word ricocheted through his mind palace: _lovely, lover, love, love, love_.

“What does it mean, John?” was all he said. Sherlock ran his hands up the backs of John’s thighs, over the small, rounded curve of his arse. He rubbed small circles into the flesh with the pads of his fingers, pulling gently to spread his cheeks, then pushing them back together. John slid his hands into Sherlock’s hair, not pulling, just holding. Still, Sherlock’s very hair follicles ached to be close to him.

“Well, if stayo- steata - if they other one meant fat, then I’d say callipygian means… thin?”

Sherlock scooted forward, trapping John’s legs between his knees, and kissed slowly down John’s hip. His teeth scraped gently at the hipbone. Under him, John fidgeted. His tongue skimmed over the lightly furred meeting of thigh and groin. John took deep, shuddering breaths. He snuffled his nose affectionately at the hair leading from John’s navel to his now-straining cock. John scratched lightly at his scalp. All the while, his hands worked ceaselessly at John’s arse: kneading, pushing, pulling, rubbing. One dry finger skated briefly over John’s hole and Sherlock shuddered, needing to be closer.

“Try again, John,” Sherlock teased, and kissed at John’s stomach and thighs. There was beautiful skin under his mouth, the amazing sum of unextraordinary parts, and Sherlock hoped to never lose the taste.

“Okay, ah… not thin, then-” John cut off with a groan as Sherlock sucked a dark bruise over the soft flesh of his side. Sherlock pulled back, admiring his handiwork, and gave the mark a chaste kiss. “If not thin, then something else… attractive. Does callipygian mean attractive?”

Sherlock gripped John’s arse more forcefully, reveling in the way his hands covered the flesh, and the memory of spreading his lover out to touch and taste. John’s cock stood untouched and leaking as Sherlock’s mouth swept over every inch of skin except right where he knew John wanted it most.

“Think, John,” Sherlock said against his skin, and squeezed again.

“Ah… nice arse?” John forced Sherlock to look up at him. “Did you just use a fancy five syllable word to tell me I have a _nice arse_?”

Sherlock pulled John in close and swung him onto the sofa. Toss the game, he couldn’t wait any longer.

“Callipygian,” Sherlock grinned, placing a smacking kiss on John’s sternum. “Having-” a kiss to his abdomen, “a well-” to his navel, “- shaped-” to the small tuft of dark blond pubic hair, “- buttocks.”

John’s cock was lovely and well-proportioned, and the feel of it sliding past his lips, over his tongue, nudging at his throat was divine. He took too much on the first slide and eased back, trying not to splutter. He tongued the head easily, sucking and licking the way he knew John liked, _exactly_ how he wanted it.  

“Fuck, Sherlock, yes,” John choked out, one hand fisting in his own hair, the other gripping tightly to the edge of the sofa. Sherlock pushed forward, getting John’s legs up over his shoulders, and John’s heel on his back lit up his nerves. Sherlock set an easy rhythm: long, slow pulls with plenty of saliva and tongue, bringing John closer to the edge with every bob of his head. He hefted John’s testicles in his hand, rolling them gently with his fingers. His own erection was still trapped underneath him and it ached to be touched, but here, with John spread out and wanting in front of him, he couldn’t pull a hand away. John’s legs trembled on his shoulders and Sherlock tried to soothe him, sliding one palm up a shaking thigh. The other hand slid down of its own accord, stroking over John’s perineum to circle at the puckered flesh of his hole. Sherlock slid his mouth indulgently over John’s cock as he pushed, just slightly, at that furrowed skin.

John’s legs over his shoulders clenched in warning and Sherlock pulled back, stroking the base of John’s cock with one sure hand. John’s orgasm filled his senses: the taste of come in his mouth, down his throat; the smell of sweat and musk in his nose; John’s quiet, almost pained moaning in his ears; the silky feel of John’s skin under his fingertips.

Sherlock surged up, getting himself over John’s body and sliding a hand into his pajama pants. He pushed them down urgently, fisting his cock with desperate pulls as he took John’s mouth with his own. John’s fingers wrapped around his, pulling him off with fast strokes, short and harsh and so good. Sprays of light burst behind his eyelids as he tasted the insides of John’s mouth, shared the bitter remnant of John’s spend on his tongue. John twisted his wrist competently and Sherlock’s orgasm overwhelmed him, sudden and sharp. He spilled between them, covering John’s abdomen with himself. A smug, self-satisfied bit of him wanted to rub it in, to stain John with his come, but he refrained. Instead, he eased himself down between John’s body and the back of the sofa, carefully avoiding the mess. John huffed, but when Sherlock kissed him, he tasted like happiness. Sherlock smiled against his lips, and for a few minutes they just lay there, basking in the glow.

“Kalopsia,” Sherlock whispered, threading his fingers through John’s. John pulled their clasped hands up to his mouth, kissing each of Sherlock’s fingertips in the silence. He lay unnaturally still, only his mouth working over Sherlock’s hand. “As in, I am certain I must have kalopsia, as I in no way deserve this satisfaction.”

John shook his head.

“I can’t imagine anything good that you don’t deserve, Sherlock.” The words were soft, but they sounded far too much like the John in his head, the brusque, apologetic one. John’s face was strangely blank, his features caught between expressions.

“Kalopsia: the delusion of things being more beautiful than they are,” Sherlock squeezed his hand tightly, kissing the back of John’s hand, which felt strangely like his own under his lips. “Nothing real is this good. Not for me.”

Even as he said it, Sherlock could feel John slipping away. Around him, the delusion crumpled. The walls of 221b fell. Wallpaper slowly peeled away, revealing the cracked paint and plaster of another place. The trappings of home all vanished, one at a time: the fireplace, his chair, his violin, the sofa. Not John’s chair. John’s chair hadn’t been in the room in the first place; he couldn’t stand the sight of it without John sitting there. Instead, under him was a worn, stinking mattress, and he shivered in its cold embrace.

Sherlock picked himself up, one trembling body part at a time. His stomach cramped, knocking the wind out of him, and sweat rolled down his face. His heart raced in his chest and he drew in deep breaths, trying to slow it and avoid retching at the same time. His shaking hand closed around an ornate silver spoon and his lighter. For a moment, he hesitated, thinking of John’s face again, of how it might look if John found him here among the addicts, his natural environment. Sherlock shook his head, cleared it of everything of John. He gripped the spoon tighter.

“Batrachomyomachy,” he said into the still darkness. “A fight over nothing.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> *** Trigger Warning for drug use and self-destructive behavior. ***
> 
> Your feedback is valuable to all fic writers, and I'm no exception. If you enjoyed this story, please let me know.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://quicklikelight.tumblr.com).


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